


Safe

by just_a_velleity



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: First Kiss, M/M, Non-Graphic Violence, University AU, john kisses very well, non-explicit johnlock, sherlock can be a bit oblivious sometimes, some language
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-24
Updated: 2013-03-24
Packaged: 2017-12-06 09:49:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,234
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/734306
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/just_a_velleity/pseuds/just_a_velleity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock starts working in the library for money for his experiments. Then he meets John.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Safe

It’s when he finds himself years deep into old microfilm newspaper records, doing research on 19th-century serial killers, that Sherlock remembers why he loves this job. It may be tedious at times, but the dusty old record rooms are rife with odd and intriguing facts that come in handy solving crimes. He wishes he could do it as a career, but the police aren’t exactly keen on 19-year-old detectives who outsmart Scotland Yard on a regular basis.

Sherlock starts working at the university library as a way to obtain the money for his beloved experimental chemicals. Industrial-grade sulfuric acid doesn’t come cheap, and Mycroft quickly gets tired of writing questionably legal explosive materials off to the British government. He’s tried other jobs, all arranged by Mycroft—from an insufferably dull office to a jewelry shop clerk. There was even a brief but disastrous stint with babysitting. Sherlock does not take well to children.

He’s gotten this job on his own, unsatisfied with Mycroft’s false references and inability to understand Sherlock’s working preferences. Of course, the library isn’t intellectually exhilarating by any standard, but the methodical work allows his mind to wander, and there’s a never-ending stream of patrons to deduce. He’s even started rearranging parts of his mind palace according to the Dewey Decimal System.

 The regulars are the people Sherlock has the most tolerance for—studious, unobtrusive, they leave him to his work. He’d rather not acknowledge their existence, and they indulge him in that. It’s the chatty humanities girls with their giggles and matching pink pen sets that are the worst. They’re always trying to make small talk while looking for the latest pop novel. Just tittering background noise, though, so Sherlock teaches himself to tune them out.

He mostly works afternoons, preferring to spend the London nights either mixing up experiments or —on the best ones—catching England’s most wanted for the sheer thrill. He’s worked out a nice arrangement with his RA, Jane Hudson, who’s left him alone ever since he got her abusive boyfriend locked up on assault charges. As aggravating as Mycroft is as a brother, his government connections are useful—all Sherlock had to do was provide reasonable proof, and goodness knows that wasn’t hard.

\---

Sherlock is engrossed in his latest mystery, a murdered man whose family seems to have lost all recollection of him. It’s fascinating, dangerous, Byzantine, and it’s all Sherlock can do to keep shelving when he wants so desperately to be chasing down the answer.

 “Hey. Um… excuse me?”

A voice pulls Sherlock out of the maze in his head and he looks up, irritated. He’d been close to a breakthrough—the glass puzzle pieces were just starting to slip into place, but now his concentration is shattered. Can’t be a regular—they’ve learned by now not to talk to Sherlock when he has that faraway look.

He finally turns around, shooting an exasperated glare in the direction of the voice. He’s met with slate-blue eyes and a set mouth looking about as annoyed as he feels.

“I’m in a bit of a hurry, if you don’t mind. Do you know where I can find the back copies of the BMJ?”

Sherlock points sharply. “That way.”

“Thanks, mate. Exam season, y’know?”

Sherlock doesn’t. He’s never been able to comprehend the stress over exams. Recall has always been like breathing to him—all he needs to do is scan the textbook in order to dazzle his professors. Most of the time the textbooks are wrong anyways, but after his fourth referral to the headmaster for insubordination, Sherlock decides correcting them isn’t worth the trouble.

\---

Exam season sends ever more jittery students pouring into the library at odd hours, so Sherlock stays busy getting their books and making not-so-subtle comments on their choices. Really, the people who check out sappy romance novels every time deserve it, he thinks. He’s skeptical of literature as a whole, but has a special dislike for the penny-dreadfuls.

Sherlock is busily filing the returns when he feels a tap on his shoulder. He turns around to find the med student from before looking questioningly at him.

“Hey. You helped me out last time—mind finding another article? This physiology professor is killing me.”

“Evidently. Title?” Sherlock says, pulling up the catalog system.

“ _A Study of Cardiovascular Ailments and Treatments_. I’m John, by the way.” He offers a hand.

Sherlock reaches out and shakes it absentmindedly, continuing to type left-handed.

“It’s in 612.”

“Thanks. Hey, you never told me your name.”

“Sherlock.”

\---

The med student—John, Sherlock corrects himself. Must add that to the mind palace. Names are such a bother. John, then.

John frequents the library more often, even after exam season, and Sherlock finds him interesting chiefly as an anomaly. Most of the library regulars are curled up into themselves—waiflike girls who scribble furiously in blue pen or diligent, reclusive maths majors. This boy is different, though. Sherlock watches the ramrod-straight way he carries himself and his habit of choosing the chair with his back to the wall. When Sherlock does the same, it’s because he wants to observe and minimize being noticed, but somehow with this boy it seems like a defense.

Sherlock goes back to shelving the history section and heaves an annoyed sigh when he sees that the Renaissance has been sorted all wrong. Molly means well, but her good intentions can’t quite cover for her complete lack of ability. Why she started working here in the first place, Sherlock doesn’t understand, though he suspects it’s because she fancies the professor who supervises the night shift.

\---

Sherlock has just gotten absorbed into a study of the chemical properties of various types of body tissue when he feels someone enter the room. He’s trained himself to notice the tiniest traces—footsteps, breathing, shifts in the floor—when he’s alone, because he’s developed the rather inconvenient habit of getting jumped on a semiregular basis. This time, though, it’s John, standing in the doorway looking out of place.

“Sherlock? It is Sherlock, right? Sorry, there’s no one out there and I really need this particular book.”

Late again, Sherlock thinks to himself. Sally’s probably off with her newest idiot boyfriend. Apparently he’s the only one capable of keeping time in this place.

“One moment, let me mark my place.”

Sherlock leads John to the proper section with uncharacteristic patience. There’s something about John’s unassuming manner that makes him more tolerable than most, though Sherlock is loath to admit he tolerates anyone. John’s interruptions, at least, seem to have a purpose.

Sherlock goes back to shelving and comes across something that looks relevant to what John is studying, so he sets it aside and leaves it next to John’s elbow the next time he walks by.

He turns his back too quickly to see John’s quirked eyebrow and small smile.

\---

John’s back the next day, studying for anatomy by the way he’s furiously drawing with that pen. Sherlock finds himself glancing over, doing it unconsciously until he catches himself, wondering what the hell he’s doing. Why is John so interesting? Sherlock’s barely even spoken with him, but there’s a quiet sort of unassuming strength about him that draws his attention. It’s odd the way John defies his deducing abilities—most people are open books, but John’s got a seemingly unbreakable guard that only makes Sherlock want to know more. Challenges have always been irresistible, and John is atypical, an intriguing spot in a dull university full of people with boring, predictable lives.

Sherlock stops briefly, wielding a stack of books in one hand and a pen in the other, and quickly sketches something onto John’s paper.

“You had the ventricles wrong,” Sherlock throws over his shoulder as he walks away.

\---

Criminals, not books, are Sherlock’s true passion, and this is one of his favorites— a wily, clever impersonator that fooled the HSBC’s best computers. Sherlock has never been one to be limited by computing power, though.

The man is a talented hacker who has managed to evade him for far too long, but Sherlock finally catches a lead. Midnight or not, the physical chess game of capture is what Sherlock lives for.

\---

He’s flying around a corner too fast, just a step too far when he sees the silver flash and suddenly there’s a knife at his throat. Everything seems to come into focus on his glorious adrenaline high— he’s acutely aware of every detail, from his attacker’s strength to the available escape routes. Sherlock is agile, slight, and though his assailant is a brute Sherlock is sure he can win. A twist, a carefully placed jab, and he’s sprinting down the street, coat billowing behind him. It’s only when he’s halfway back to Baker Residence Hall that he notices the bleeding.

His first thought is his coat. Bloody assailant ruining his favorite coat, he can’t be allowed to get away with that. The wound isn’t bad—a clean cut across his forearm that missed the veins. It’s his right arm, though, damn it.  He’ll just ask Molly to fix him up quickly—she’s a nursing student and knows her way around a needle and thread better than a library.

It’s only a few days later that Mycroft comes parading onto campus, armed guard and the full nine yards. Bloody pompous man thinking that just because he’s got a government job he isn’t responsible for his own self-defense. He’s  only twenty-six, but he has twice the self-importance he should. Sherlock wonders briefly about his arrival and then realizes. God, Mycroft must have spies everywhere in this city.

“I heard about your little escapade. Didn’t go so smoothly, did it?”

“It went just fine, thank you. The HSBC hacker is now sitting in a prison cell—I’d call it a success.”

“Sherlock, you know what I mean. You’ve gone and gotten yourself injured, and I won’t have it.”

“Haven’t you got any wars to start, Mycroft?”

Mycroft gives him a demeaning look. “From now on you will not go on cases alone. I forbid it.”

“Oh, and exactly how are you going to make sure of that?”

Problem is, Sherlock knows exactly how. Mycroft and his damn spy network are aware of practically everything that’s going on in Britain. One would think they had bigger problems than Sherlock, but apparently not.

\---

Sherlock mopes around the dorm for a few days, muttering angrily under his breath until cursing at Mycroft ceases to provide any satisfaction.

He tries going out on his own, of course, but he’s stopped by three black-clad men with L85s. Overkill, really, but Mycroft loves a good show. Surely, Sherlock thinks, this will end eventually.

He’s wrong.

He paces circles in the carpet, tears at his violin with a ferocity that only comes from pent-up energy. Even the most twisted of pieces can’t engage him for long, though. He continues his experiments, but the fire alarm goes off one too many times at 3am and Mrs. Hudson threatens to smash his test tubes.

He’s going to go crazy.

\---

He takes to smoking to clear his head and get rid of some of the unbearable boredom. It doesn’t take long before he’s up to two packs a day, but it’s the only thing keeping him sane.

John comments one day at the library when Sherlock sets down another book. He’s started dropping things John might find useful on his table when he’s there, leaving them with a scrap of paper when he’s not. John hasn’t said anything, but he throws Sherlock a smile when he glances up. It’s mildly disconcerting. People don’t smile at Sherlock, they glare at him.

“Sherlock, you’re practically radiating smoke. Are you alright?”

Sherlock is the farthest thing from alright, but it’s not the smoking that’s the problem. There’s a spark of realization in his eyes when he sees the solution. John.

“John, I have a request.”

“O…kay?”

“I need help with something. It’s not difficult, not dangerous, but I just need someone to come with me.”

“You’re a cryptic one.”

“It’s just something I’m investigating. Can you come tonight?”

“Sure, I guess. I need an excuse to put off studying for this, anyway.”

Sherlock can practically feel the relief as his muscles unclench and his mind clears. A case, finally. He’s even (mostly) told the truth to John—it shouldn’t be dangerous, he’ll  leave that for when Mycroft comes to his senses and lets him out again.

\---

John shows up outside Baker Residence Hall precisely on time with shoulders set and a determined look on his face.

“Good, you’re here. Would you feel safer with a gun?” Sherlock says, offering a .22.

“No, I’m fine. When do we set out?” John asks, and there’s a tense excitement in his voice that Sherlock is more than familiar with.

\---

They’re out stalking through London’s back streets, waiting for a sign of movement, a clue, anything to tell them which way to go. Sherlock’s finally out of that insufferable dorm and he can’t bear the waiting.

Until his mobile beeps. There’s a moment of brilliant, twisted logic, and then they’re off, running full out, chasing the barely-there trail that Sherlock can see like it’s painted in Day-Glo.

Suddenly, the trail ends, and they’re out of breath but smiling, leaning against the wall. The absurdity of it all hits them the moment their eyes meet, and then they’re bent over double laughing, half drunk on moonlight and adventure.

It doesn’t last long, though, once Sherlock gets another text. They’re back to racing, eyes shining on the adrenaline high.

Sherlock catches John’s eye for just a fraction of a second as they’re sprinting through Hyde Park, but it’s enough to see the spark. Sherlock knows that look—he’s addicted to the chase, to the rush of dancing on a ledge with death. He entertains for a moment the notion of keeping John on—he’d he helpful—but he’s interrupted.

There’s a noise from behind and he doesn’t even have time to turn before there are hands around his neck and he’s stuck and losing air and oh god he can’t breathe and it’s not so much the danger that terrifies him as the inability to respond. He’s already getting lightheaded when the pressure around his neck is just … gone.

His assailant falls to the ground, and it takes Sherlock longer than it should to see there’s a bullet hole in his temple. He’d like to blame it on the oxygen shortage, but really it’s John. Sherlock is worried, and Sherlock doesn’t do worried, but he looks around frantically. If there’s one man, there must be more, and oh, he promised him safety and this was the opposite of safe.

No. He has to put John out of his mind for now—someone has a gun. The bullet wound is clean, precise, and there hadn’t been anyone around—even John had kept his distance after Sherlock forbade him to ruin possible evidence. Sherlock examines the forest relentlessly but finds no one, and after an hour of searching he has to give up. There’s no sign of a struggle anywhere, and John is strong enough to put up a fight, so Sherlock breathes a little easier.

\---

When John fails to show up to the library for several days on a row, though, Sherlock is a little distressed, and he can’t pinpoint why. John’s alive; he’s checked all the police and medical records to make sure. What really baffles him is why it matters to him. Sherlock would never wish for an innocent’s death—well, maybe that obnoxious Anderson’s—but he shouldn’t care about the well-being of random students. 

He tells himself it’s because he feels as if he’s betrayed John with his promise of safety. Sherlock might not care about being shot at, but most people do, and it wasn’t fair to subject John to that.

Sherlock has gotten very good at lying to himself.

\---

He finds himself looking up as he shelves, sneaking glances through the gaps in the books, just to see. The pile of medical texts with the scrawled-out “John” scrap on top grows ever larger, until the librarian finally asks him what on earth he thinks he’s doing. Sherlock doesn’t have a good answer, but his imposing stare seems to be enough.

\---

It’s been a week when Sherlock notices the boy sitting straight-backed in the chair against the wall and feels as if his breath’s being choked out of him all over again. He thought he was missing John, but now that he’s back Sherlock’s first instinct is to run. He can’t talk to John— he doesn’t know how to apologise to people, especially not when he’s gotten them shot at.

Sherlock ducks behind the row of biographies, where no one ever comes, and pretends to be busy.

It’s when he turns around to sneak out that he damn near collides with John.

“Sherlock.”

It’s all he can do to keep still, let alone respond, until Sherlock takes in the smile on John’s face.

“You’re not angry. I don’t understand. We were shot at.” Sherlock says. Short, functional sentences because, really, he is out of his comfort zone here.

 “Sherlock. Who the _fuck_ did you think took that shot?”

It takes a second or two for Sherlock to realize how obvious it is. The addict’s pleasure high of adrenaline in his eyes, his willingness to go with Sherlock on an out-of-the-blue chase in the middle of the night, his casual refusal of a weapon. It’s obvious, obvious, _obvious_ , and Sherlock has no idea why the thought’s never even crossed his mind. The gears are whirling and everything is clicking into place all at once, but all Sherlock can manage is a soft, incredulous

“You.”

John looks at him and a smile plays on his face.

“Figured that one out, did you?”

John’s face softens as he leans in. Sherlock’s not at all sure what’s going on until John’s lips hit his and he freezes. He’s not sure what to do with this—Sherlock’s never kissed anybody before; never wanted to, but _God_ does he want this. Sherlock has no idea how to do it, though, doesn’t know what to do with these mysterious hands he seems to have acquired, so he sticks them in his pockets.

He feels John smile underneath the kiss as he reaches into Sherlock’s pockets to take his hands.

“Unconventional, you know, but hey,” John whispers, and once Sherlock hears the smile in his voice it’s like he knows all at once what to do. He holds John tighter, one hand around the back of his neck and the other pressed into the bookshelf he’s got John up against now. There’s a small sigh, and suddenly John’s fingers are tangled in Sherlock’s dark curls, pulling his head closer, and they’re kissing, really kissing, and Sherlock’s never felt anything that defines happy so well. John’s kissing him senseless and they’re tangled up in each other so close he can feel John’s pulse racing. It’s intense and soft and slow and Sherlock wants to spend the rest of forever figuring out the mystery of just when he fell for John Watson.

They’re between breathless kisses when Sherlock briefly gains enough sense to apologise for jeopardizing John’s safety. He feels John’s chest move as he laughs quietly.

“Safe isn’t really my thing, Sherlock.”

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Mrs. Hudson apparently doesn't have a canon first name, so I just made one up. 
> 
> Comments and constructive criticism greatly appreciated- I'm just-a-velleity on tumblr if you'd like to contact me there.
> 
> Not yet britpicked, much appreciate you catching any mistakes.


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